


Blood & Water

by lackadaisical (alasweneverdo)



Series: hpendurance one-shots [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, Gen, Harry Potter Next Generation, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 21:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1580147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alasweneverdo/pseuds/lackadaisical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are certain unwritten rules about what it means to be a Weasley. More and more often, Roxanne doesn't quite think she fits the mold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood & Water

**Author's Note:**

> Third round of hpendurance, and as unbeta'd as ever. ~~Plus I only just remembered at the last minute that I'd yet to get this done, oops.~~
> 
> Prompt: Your character attends a masquerade and makes a drunken confession.  
> Character: Roxanne Weasley  
> Level of Comfort: hell

The punch tastes a little off, and Roxanne has good reason to suspect her cousin.

Jamie just has a shifty look about him. That's the first strike. There's also the fact that she caught him whispering rather conspicuously to his just-as-sketchy best mate earlier, and she _knows_ those two are more than capable of getting their hands on some liquor. The Invisibility Cloak makes it all a breeze. No one's sure how Jamie managed to nab it, of course, but he never misses an opportunity to put it to use.

Technically, Roxanne shouldn't be able to pick him out of a crowd right now; his feathered mask obscures his face and a charm in the Great Hall has made it impossible to distinguish anyone's voice. But the hair, so much like his father's and grandfather's, is unmistakable—well, and he was telling some awful joke a minute ago that she's heard him repeat a million times, just as unfunny now as it was the first time he said it. There's something undeniably satisfying about the way that girl he was chatting up just let out an awkward laugh and made an excuse about looking for her friend, disappearing into the crowd without a backward glance.

Still, Roxanne polishes off her glass and refills it. The punch splashes almost violently, its red-orange hue making her inexplicably furious, so that the next splash is sloppier and angrier.

" _Someone's_ prickly."

She'd known there was someone standing near her, so the voice isn't startling. She turns to face the speaker with a frown.

"Sorry?" she says with as little of annoyance as she can manage, which is still a decent amount.

He's shorter than her. That's the first thing she notices. It's not by much—and she knows full well how tall she is for a girl—but it makes it harder for her to take him seriously. Always does. Men and their ridiculous egos, she thinks. Always trying to be all high-and-mighty because they're so—so physically superior, or whatever. Bugger that. She's a Beater; she could knock his teeth out with her little finger.

The second thing she notices is that the stranger's ensemble is all silvery-grey with green accents. It's the kind of thing only an incredibly prideful Slytherin would wear, really, and it's so silly that Roxanne can't even be all that irritated anymore.

The stranger snorts. "Look, there's no reason to get all huffy with _me_ ," he says. "Clearly it's that juice of Satan that's wronged you."

"Don't be ridiculous," she says. "Of course it's not the bloody drink."

The song changes to a Weird Sisters classic, some old thing she's heard her mum sing along to under her breath. A few people nearby laugh in a giddily nostalgic way, too much breath and not enough voice, and the dancing is even more careless now. Roxanne feels no compulsion to join in.

"Yeah?" The stranger cocks his head in a way that strikes her as vaguely strange. "What, some dick in a mask try to cop a feel?"

It's her turn to snort. "Are you serious?" She gestures to herself with her free hand. "You think someone'd try to fuck with this?"

"Try to? Yeah." He laughs. "Live through it? Not a chance."

She smiles, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Hear, hear," she says, raising her glass of punch before downing it nearly in one go.

"Right, so you know they spiked it, yeah?"

She wipes the back of her hand across her mouth. "Counting on it." Her pause is almost long enough for him to reply, but she cuts in with, "It's just my fucking family, you know?"

The stranger makes a sound of acknowledgement. Or maybe it's understanding; the charm's made it harder to interpret tone, she's noticed.

Well. And she might be a little drunk.

"It's not even that they've got high expectations," she says. "I mean, they _do_ , but—s'not even about accomplishing things. Just... it's these impossible standards. Morally and all that. No one can be _that good_ all the time." She pauses to down the last of the punch, then continues as she refills yet again. "And it's like—they're all about how 'House doesn't matter! Everyone's got good and bad!' Right, sure, but you'd've been fucking pleased if I'd been in—"

Okay, so she'd forgotten about this other charm and how it doesn't let people reveal personal details and suchlike. Houses, family names, friends—all off-limits. Just one more thing that convinces her the whole idea of a masquerade is stupid and pointless.

"Ah," says the stranger.

"You get it?"

He nods. "That righteous horse shit," he says. "Dead giveaway."

She nods along enthusiastically. "Yeah, yeah! And they're all like that, you know? Whole family. They like the ones—like—the ones who're all _upstanding_ and shit. Merlin forbid I'm a little self-serving."

His laugh is short and pointed. She remembers then that she's talking to a Slytherin, and that spurs her on.

"Then they've got these traditions, right, and you've got to play along with every single buggering one, 'cause like—that's just how it works, innit? You've got to. Everyone's got to be on board." It's a lot of work to keep her voice down at this point, but she knows if she doesn't contain it she'll just _scream_ and she really, really doesn't need that just now.

The stranger doesn't say anything, just keeps looking at her neutrally, probably waiting for her to get on with her ranting. She's happy to oblige.

"Everyone's always involved in everything. Together. One great-big-happy—" The magic makes her stumble over _Weasley_ , but she ignores it. "—family. Fuck it. Just—fuck all of it, you know? 'm sick of them making me define myself by—by something I'm not even a fucking _part_ of!"

"Wait," says the stranger. "You're not part of your family?"

"I _am_ , but—just—" Unable to call to mind the proper words, she points emphatically at the exposed skin on her forearm. Her drink sloshes a bit, thankfully missing her dress robes. "See that?" Then she points to her hair. "And this? I'm not—some fucking ginger princess, all right? I don't look like them, but that's not even—it's more than that, yeah?"

"You don't think like they do," he says.

"Right." She purses her lips as she considers her next words. "It's not—I don't think it's all their fault or anything. But it's like... everyone in the whole family—all the cousins and aunts and uncles, even the ones who married in—they've got this way of doing things. And seeing the world and all. And I'm—I just don't. I don't see it like that. Don't think it's right to name kids for dead people." Surprised that the charm let her say that much, she presses on: "My brother's one of those, and they probably don't do it on purpose, yeah, but they just treat him—different. Differently," she corrects. "It's terrible. Why do that to someone? Not gonna bring back your dead—" And then it stops her. She sighs.

"So it _is_ them," says the stranger with something like amusement.

She hums. "Yep, it's them all right."

"Didn't know there was trouble in—give it here," he says, gesturing to her glass as she starts to let it tip a bit too much. When she refuses to comply, he Vanishes the liquid and, ignoring her indignant protests, says, "Oh, shut it, you lush. Like I was saying, it's good to know even the—mm. That's annoying."

Roxanne couldn't agree more. She sets down her empty glass, in the process elbowing a girl ladling punch into her own glass. The girl scowls (which, with her peacock-like decorations, doesn't look even remotely threatening) before turning on her heel and storming off.

Roxanne winces. "Shit, I forgot we were still at this bloody awful thing." Her eyes widen. "Double shit, what if someone's—"

"No one's overheard," says the stranger.

" _Muffliato?_ " she guesses. At his nod, she says, "Didn't see you raise your wand."

"That's because you're drunk," he says.

She laughs. "No, fuck, but I really am, aren't I."

Drunk enough that she doesn't feel ashamed about blurting all her secrets to some idiot Slytherin boy. Drunk enough that she thinks maybe he hasn't made the full connection yet—even though, fuck, there aren't any other black Weasley girls, are there? He knows. She knows he knows. And she's drunk enough that she doesn't even care that she doesn't know _his_ name. Possibly she prefers it that way.

"So. Your brother," he says.

"Yeah?"

"Two of you get along?"

"Yeah." She shrugs. "Love him to death. Course I do. I think—hmm—he's like my best friend, right? Absolutely. I fucking adore that wanker. He's just... a lot of things I don't like about the family, sort of. He's all of those. Good and selfless and whatever. Bit—really gay, actually. Kind of really. They don't mind," she adds. "Even Gran doesn't make a fuss, and she pitched a _fit_ when—god—my uncle turned out to be. And my other uncle. Half the family's that way, I think."

"Which half are you?"

She ignores that. "But yeah, I dunno, I guess I used to resent that. How well he fits in with all the rest. But I don't really... _want_ to anymore, know what I mean? I like being different. I just don't like that they're... the way that they are."

It's only now that the music catches her attention again—a slow song. She doesn't know it, but it isn't terrible, and she's so very drunk.

"Hey, do you—?" She tilts her head in the direction of the crowd, all partnered up and swaying in that pointless way.

The stranger groans. "Merlin, no. I fucking hate dancing."

"You're at a dance," she says apologetically.

"Right, yeah, and see all the dancing I'm not doing?"

She sighs. "Fine. But I didn't think a—someone from— _a family like yours_ ," she says at last, after struggling against the charm, "would be so opposed to showing off."

He frowns heavily. "How'd you know I was—"

"Ha! I didn't, but I do now."

"It's the hair, isn't it," he says, and at first she doesn't understand what that's even supposed to mean. But then two and two come together, and—oh, she'd only meant that he was a pure-blood, but now she sees how incredibly blond his hair is, and how his skin is maybe a million shades paler than hers, and it's almost laughable.

Not 'almost.' She _does_ laugh.

Of course she's been whinging to a Malfoy about Weasley family values. Of course she's been airing her grievances to someone whose father was supposed to kill her uncles and aunt. It doesn't especially matter at this point. Everything's ridiculous anyway, and she's too drunk to—

"Oi, would you _listen?_ " someone squawks. When Roxanne whirls about, she sees that that someone is Jamie, an exasperated Professor Longbottom dragging him toward the exit. "I said I—hey! I didn't put anything in the sodding—"

"Language," Neville reprimands tiredly.

"That's not—! Fine, I didn't put anything in the stupid drinks! Okay, I did, but it's—"

"I know Wizard Wheezes when I see it," interrupts Neville. "You're still seeing the headmistress."

Roxanne turns back to Scorpius, looks at him for a moment, then looks at her empty glass nearby.

"Well," says Scorpius. "That's embarrassing."


End file.
